Chapter 1: A Hasty Decent
On the blazing hot tarmac of Dallas Fort Worth Airport, a small twin turboprop plane sat close to the end of the taxiway, engines idling, almost ready for takeoff. The plane, a Brazilian made Embraer-120 Brasilia, was not the newest or fanciest of planes. Standing in with a length of 66 feet and a wingspan just under 65 feet, the plane was an ugly, squat little thing, whose heyday was long past; the fading FedEx paintjob from the 90’s didn’t make it look any prettier.
Inside the cramped cockpit, Anthony Davis, the pilot, and Steve Edwards, the first officer, sat in relative silence, occasionally pushing buttons and twisting knobs as they cleared their way through countless checklists. Davis was technically Edward’s superior, having been with FedEx longer, but after working long hours together and both suffering from executive ‘manglement’, they trusted each other as equals.
With the solid click of a switch being pushed they completed their departure checklist, and were now ready for takeoff. Or at least ready for the next phase of pre-takeoff preparations.
Reading from his clipboard, filled to the bursting point, Jackson narrated, “Takeoff checklist complete. Beginning of briefing. We are taking off on runway twenty-three right, climbing to ten thousand feet. Alarm before V1, I will stop on runway, and you will call tower. Good?”
“Confirm,” was Edward’s reply.
“Okay. If we have an alarm after V-r, we will be forced to takeoff. I’ll fly, you call tower and run triage.”
Flipping through the papers, Davis found his scribbled mass of calculations near the back. “V-one will be one hundred two knots, V-r is one-fifteen, and V2 is one-eleven. Aircraft weight is twenty thousand eight hundred pounds, with cargo and fuel loaded. Assuming twenty one thousand pounds gross weight.”
As Davis was speaking, he gave the cockpit a final once-over, scanning and confirming, for the last time, that every switch, selector, and lever was in its proper position.
“Flaps fifteen,” he announced as he confirmed the setting of the lever against the indicator on the center panel. “Slats armed. I think we’re good to go. Any questions?”
“No, I’m good. We just need to ask for takeoff clearance and we can get going,” Edwards assured.
“Alright, moving on to the optional checklist, item one.”
Picking up the long-defunct microphone for the intercom, Davis held it to his mouth and began his spiel. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Barry Friendly welcoming you aboard FedEx flight two-one-seven,non-stop service to Cimarron, New Mexico. Our flight time today will be approximately two hours, thirty minutes. At this time I’d like you to direct your attention towards the cabin crew who will now demonstrate the proper safety procedures. In the event of a water landing, we hope that you are able to relax and enjoy every last moment of your FedEx flight experience until impact.”
They both shared a laugh. After their brief moment of levity, the mood in the cockpit turned serious again.
“Tower, FedEx Two-One-Seven is short of two-three right. Requesting takeoff clearance,” Steve radioed. After a short pause, they got the reply that they were waiting for.
“FedEx 217, cleared for takeoff on runway two-three right. Climb to Flight Level one hundred, then proceed with flight plan. Have a safe flight.”
“Roger. FedEx two-one-seven rolling,” replied Edwards.
Davis turned to Edwards, nodding.
Permission granted, crew ready; it was time to get this show on the road.
Davis released the toe brakes, letting the aircraft move slowly from the taxiway onto the runway. Once the plane was lined up with the centerline, he advanced the twin-engine throttles, their background hum becoming a loud roar. The plane gathered speed, moving faster and faster down the runway with each passing second.
With Davis handling the aircraft, Edwards looked over the instrument cluster, ready to call an aborted takeoff at the slightest malfunction. And so, as their speed rose, so did the tension. Moving so fast, even small mistakes could have big consequences.
As the thin needle on the airspeed indicator climbed past one hundred and two knots, Edwards called it out: “V-one.” When the needle finally passed one hundred and ten, Edwards called “Rotate!”
With skill born from experience, Davis firmly pulled the yoke back. The plane responded nimbly.
“Positive rate?” Davis asked.
“Positive rate established,” Edwards replied.
“Alright, gear up,” Davis said, mentally ticking through the post-takeoff checklist.
“Gear up,” Edwards replied, reaching forward to work the gear selection lever into the appropriate position. A hydraulic hum—felt more than heard—filled the cockpit, signaling the retraction of the gear into the body. The six red lights had turned off, indicating ‘up-and-locked’.
“Gear is up and lights are out.”
“Flaps to zero degrees.”
“Flaps to zero,” Edwards confirmed, pushing the flaps lever into place. Once again, a hydraulic hum filled the cockpit as the wings reconfigured themselves to be smaller, the flaps sliding neatly into the main assembly.
A voice called out on the radio, “FedEx two-one-seven, contact departure on nine-zero-decimal-three, catch y’all later!”
“Ninety-decimal-three for FedEx two-one-seven, roger,” Edwards replied, switching the radio to a new frequency. He keyed up on the new frequency: “Dallas Fort Worth departure, FedEx two-one-seven with you at thirty-eight hundred to ten thousand.”
He didn’t have to wait long for a response from the professional, snappy controllers.
“Good morning, FedEx two-one-seven,. Cleared to flight level two-seventy. Climb at your discretion.”
“And up to two-seventy for FedEx two-one-seven,” Edwards confirmed.
Climbing at a modest rate for several minutes, the aircraft finally reached three thousand feet. As it leveled, both pilots relaxed, if slightly. Takeoff had been to the letter, and their ascent to cruising had been trouble-free.
Both men settled in for the long and tedious portion of the flight.
“Pop it on climb, on nav, and autopilot on.” Davis ordered, ticking the last box in his mental checklist. Finally, they were out of the airport and could get underway.
“Climb, nav and autopilot on.” Edwards replied and dialed in the initial climb altitude and the desired airspeed into the autopilot panel. The autopilot itself was a marvel of engineering. Once he had confirmed their heading and altitude against the autopilot’s set values, Edwards thumbed the ‘AP ENG’ button, along with several mode selections. He was rewarded with green lights and buzzer tones.
“Autopilot, take us away,” he commanded, both yokes stiffening as the autopilot took over.
With the autopilot engaged, both men were free to relax in the cockpit, though they stayed alert. Edwards reclined his chair, stowing the checklists in their cubbyhole and pulling out their flight plan, fobbing it off to Davis.
Davis flipped through the flight plan, found the next nav point, and keyed it into the autopilot.
Both pilots sat back in their seats, reviewing their flight systems as the aircraft climbed with perseverance towards their assigned altitude of thirty-two thousand feet. Davis kept an eye on the altimeter, smiling when the mark surpassed ten thousand feet.
Davis unbuckled his harness and turned to tap Edwards on the shoulder.
“What?” Edwards turned.
“I’m gonna put some coffee on in the galley, you want any?” Davis asked.
Edwards considered the offer for a moment; he shrugged: “Sounds good, save me a cup.”
“Your aircraft?”
“My aircraft.”
“Try not to scratch the paint this time,” Davis joked as he stood up and climbed out of his seat, stooping in the cramped cockpit. He opened the door, stepping into the small room between the cockpit and cargo bay. First order of business was to get the aging coffee maker going, then he could grab some reading material from his flight bag.
He took two short steps into the remnants of the galley, from a time when the airplane hauled people instead of packages. He dug around the drawers until his hand closed around a coffee-ground brick, cutting the sealed package open with a satisfying knife stroke.
It was cheap and bitter coffee, with an uncanny resemblance to dirt. Still, any coffee was better than no coffee.
He loaded the grounds into the machine and opened the water valve, filling the machine. Muttering a short prayer, he fiddled with the switch until the machine kicked on with a sputter and the flicker of a minute red bulb. There he sat for several minutes.
Finally, a whine heralded the stream that would fill the carafe. Davis liked his coffee, and he liked it strong. Smiling to himself, he took a big whiff of the liquid filling the pot, basking in the aroma. Except there was something off with the scent, an odd chemical tinge.
Has the coffee gone bad? He leaned in close to the machine and gave another sniff. No, it smells alright. He stepped back and sniffed again. Smells stronger now… burnt rubber?
Something was burning.
Confident that the source of the smell wasn’t the dilapidated coffee machine finally giving up the ghost, he looked around the cramped compartment for a source.
He was searching for the second time when he noticed a trace of smoke. It came from the gap between the cargo door and the floor.. Bingo. The source of the smoke was definitely somewhere in the cargo hold.
Cracking the door open, he peered inside. A large and monolithic-looking crate dominated the cargo bay. The surrounding space was crammed full of smaller packages in bins, loosely held back with netting. All of this was ignored in favour of a small wisp of smoke, which trickled forth from a corner of the large crate.
There was a crack like a gunshot, and the plane dropped out from under his him. His feet caught up to it a moment later, and he stumbled, flailing to regain his balance as another explosion rocked the plane further. The floor shifted to the left as he moved right.
Small bits of debris in the galley became projectiles, pelting Davis as he fell against the bulkhead of the compartment.
Something heavy smashed into his back. Spilt liquid scalded his legs. The only thing he could do was hug himself to the floor and wait for the plane’s wild gyrations to stop.
“Anthony!” Edwards yelled from the cockpit.
Davis pulled himself up with the flight attendants chair, then got to his feet. Hugged to the wall, he pulled himself into the cockpit, and quickly analysed the situation. The alarm panel was lit up like a police car, indicating multiple faulted systems. The plane’s computer repeated the same words in a monotonic voice: “Engine control, autopilot, oil. Engine control, autopilot, oil.”
Edwards fought the control column, holding it against his chest and twisting the yoke nearly sideways. It wouldn’t obey.
Davis stumbled to his seat with the motion of the floor. The harness slipped and slid in his fingers.
He closed it with a click.
“Situation?”
“We’ve got the left engine out.” Edwards’ voice was as thin as his control. Paper.
“Okay,” Davis inhaled shakily. . It made partial sense. He let his breath out. But an engine failure couldn’t cause such a large list in the aircraft?
Looking up at the ceiling gauges, Davis noticed faint wisps of oily smoke in the cockpit, no doubt being drawn in through the air conditioning. He reached up and flicked the air conditioner switch off.
“Pack off.”
“Okay, I’m gonna want… I want left power lever, left power lever flight idle,” Edwards’ hesitant tone matched his hand movement.
“Flight idle,” Davis slipped into secure confirmation as he pulled the throttle lever back on the throttle quadrant.
The cabin shook.
“Left condition lever. Left condition lever… feather!”
“Left to feather,” Davis griped the selector lever and tried to shift it back. The mechanism was jammed, and he forced it, something crunching inside the mechanism.
“We’re feathered. Left is feathered.”
Edwards’ forehead furrowed.
“Uhh,” Davis checked the propeller pitch indicator. 80 degrees. Fully feathered. “It did feather.”
“What the hell’s wrong with this thing?” Edwards tapped the console hard enough to make noise. Feathering the blades of a failed engine was the proper procedure to minimize drag. It had done nothing. Even with almost full rudder to the right, they were slowly turning left.
In his gut, Edwards knew something was wrong. He’d flown a Brasilia with a failed engine before. It hadn’t felt anything like this.
The beeps of the fire detection circuit filled the cockpit. Davis’ gaze darted over every instrument in the console... Fire light for the left engine: illuminated. Exhaust gas temperature for the left engine: already high and rising.
One answer.
“Fire in the left engine!”
“Alright, left condition lever, fuel shut off.”
“Confirm,” Davis twisted the small knob underneath the left engine’s throttle lever, cutting off the fuel line to the left engine. The temperature gauge settled back down to safe levels.
“Fire’s out. We’re stable,” Davis announced.
“Okay. Headsets on.”
“Alright... putting on headset.”
“Mayday, mayday, mayday.” Davis called out on the radio. “This is FedEx two-one-seven declaring an emergency. We’ve had engine failure and we’re coming out of...” —he glanced at the altimeter— “...fourteen thousand feet.”
He waited. There was no reply. He tried again.
“Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. FedEx two-one-seven. Calling any aircraft. Any aircraft. Engine failure.”
“We might be out of range, try the emergency band,” Edwards suggested, swallowing. It sounded like a choke.
Davis changed the frequency and tried again. Strained tones filtered through his lips.
“Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. This is FedEx two-one-seven, on guard, declaring an emergency. If you can hear this message, respond. We’ve had engine failure, and are maintaining fourteen thousand feet.”
No response.
“Try setting the transponder, ” Edwards suggested.
“Seven-five taken alive, seven-six technical glitch, seven-seven going to heaven,” Davis muttered to himself as he keyed a distress code into the plane’s transponder. They’d just become a bright orange blob on the screen of every air traffic controller within a hundred miles.
He tried the radio again.
“Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. This is FedEx two-one-seven, squawking seven-seven-zero-zero. We have had an engine failure and are maintaining fourteen thousand feet.”
The aircraft gave a sudden lurch, tossing both pilots against their harnesses.
Davis’ vision blurred as a wave of nausea surged through his body. He gasped for breath, doubling over in his chair.
When his eyes refocused, a solid wall of grey stormclouds filled the windscreen on all sides. They were a nasty dark grey, almost black.
Small drops of rain were ticking against the windscreen, the plane fast approaching the vertical wall of clouds.
In scant moments the dying airplane passed into the storm. The rain roared against the windows, a deafening barrage that brought with it sun-drowning clouds.
“We’re gonna make it. We’re going to make it. It’s gonna get worse before it gets better. Just keep us straight and level.” Davis’ voice was steel. Strained steel.
Turbulence flicked the plane left, then right.
“Level!” Davis called over the pounding storm. “Level!”
